A hired taxi delivered Shadow to the front door of a rather large house belonging to a low-level diplomatic attaché who was convinced he'd hired a professional escort for the evening. It was Shadow's task to steal his credentials while they were at the party the attaché was planning on attending.
Shadow rang the bell and spoke into the intercom. "McKnight's Escort Service?" She obeyed his order to 'wait there', then managed to look annoyed and impatient when he finally came out.
She'd seen his picture of course, but somehow the real-time image of the man was unnerving. He was a large man straying toward obese, wearing way too many hair-care products and not enough buttons on his shirt.
"What's your name?" Sabatini asked in a voice as oily as his hair. He eyed his 'date' as he would a prime side of beef.
Shadow resisted the impulse to punch him and accepted the proffered arm with an enticing smile. "What do you want to call me?" she countered, wondering what name he'd been given and terrified of guessing wrong.
A limousine rolled to a stop in front of them. Sarah got in first and slid over to make room for the mark. As soon as he was in, he favored her with a lecherous grin. "Very nice, but are you Kitty O'Toole or not?"
Kitty O'Toole? Shadow managed not to scoff out loud. "Me-ow, big boy," she replied instead with a sultry voice. "Kitty O'Toole at your service."
"You're a bit short for a call girl," he commented with an appreciative perusal of her bare legs.
Now how was Kitty supposed to respond to that? "It must be the Irish," she retorted wryly, "but my legs are long enough for my feet to touch the floor." At five foot, seven inches, Shadow was neither short nor tall.
"Yes, they do," he agreed fervently and moved closer.
Shadow's nausea grew. She gave a playful push at his chest. "You don't want me to have to spend an hour fixing myself up again, do you?" He shrugged and contented himself with putting his hand on her knee. Shadow was glad she'd skipped dinner.
"There'll be plenty of time after the party," he told her.
"Maybe we could leave early?" suggested Shadow in her best purr. The mark tapped on the window between driver and passenger. His limo sped up.
At the party, the mark handed his invitation to the guards at the door and ushered 'Kitty' inside. Shadow made a quick, mental note of the building's security and layout.
There was a well-lit, narrow band of lawn between the building and its wrought iron fence. A traffic circle separated the main entrance from the gate. The gate was manned by a booth with two men inside. Inside, security seemed fairly lax.
Shadow had Sabatini's wallet inside of thirty minutes and replaced it minus the ID card after a quick trip 'to the ladies' room'. He had promised to leave early, but after three martinis and countless dances, he seemed to have forgotten his promise. Shadow didn't forget about her rapidly approaching time limit but waited until the windows showed it was nearly dark outside before she started looking for an opening to leave without him.
The opening wasn't long in presenting itself. He helped himself to the open bar between dancing and conversations with other party-goers. By the time Shadow was ready to act, the mark was well on his way to being rather inebriated.
"You slept with my sister?" Kitty's accusation was loud, shrill and totally spurious. "After all I done for you, how could you do that? Oh, that is so it. I am out of here!"
Shadow spun on one heel and strode for the door, leaving her mark openmouthed near the bar. She hurried for the gates but it wasn't long before he found his credentials missing.
"Stop that woman!"
Shadow was out of the doors before the shout came, but not through the gates. She started running, hampered by the spike heels on her feet. The guards started to close the heavy iron gates. Shadow ran faster.
"Please, don't shut the gates," she begged. "He's just mad because I broke up with him again."
The mark was a well-known womanizer, making it a plausible excuse. The guards hesitated just long enough for Shadow to slip through just before the gates met in the middle of the drive. Shadow slowed down a little, trying to save some energy while making haste at the same time. Mentally, she cursed the spike heels she was wearing with every fiber of her tormented being.
Behind her, a motor started up and roared, telling Shadow that she needed to run faster. She dodged around the first corner she came to and headed for the rendezvous point, hoping Birdman found her before the mark did. The sound of the car behind her told Sarah she was going to have to make it to her destination by stealth and cunning rather than speed.
Quickly, Sarah ducked into a dark alley and fumbled with her handbag. Swiftly, Kitty O'Toole was transformed into a drugged-out street walker wearing high boots. Using a small, lighted compact, she managed to touch up her make-up appropriately, yank out her hair clip and tousle her hair into long snarls.
Dark circles soon rimmed her eyes and her cheeks appeared sunken as Shadow sucked them in slightly. A special paste from her cosmetics, brushed on in haste with one forefinger, temporarily yellowed her teeth and provided 'tobacco stains' on two of her fingers. When she was satisfied with her face, Shadow reached up under the hem of her dress.
Wrapped around her waist was a pair of long black sleeves taken from a man's dress coat. The blue, sequined scarf became a more ample bosom and her purse reverted to the original gold vinyl. Shadow walked out of the alley and continued toward her destination, swaying her hips in exaggerated motions as she walked.
There had been no time to spare. The car passed her, turned around and passed again. Finally, it rolled to a stop.
"Y'all want a good time?" Shadow mimicked Mo's accent as best she could and popped a stick of chewing gum in her mouth, revealing her yellowed teeth and hoped no one would notice the odd looking toes of her make-shift boots in the rapidly-waning light.
"It's not her, keep going." Sabatini dismissed her with a wave of one hand as the streetlights flickered on.
"If y'all are looking for someone, I'm right here," offered Shadow again, smiling to reveal the tooth she'd blacked out with a grease pen.
She made a crude gesture at the retreating car and swore after them, cursing and carrying on. Finally, when the car was out of sight, she kicked off the spiked sandals in relief and settled down to the business of reaching her destination, wearing only the sleeves for shoes as she ran. A motorbike roared up beside her after a few blocks.
Shadow was tired, her feet hurt and she had no intention of being taken for a streetwalker again. "I'm not interested."
"You're almost late," grinned Birdman, flipping up the visor of the bike's helmet and observing her with obvious amusement. But he sounded relieved and was still four blocks from the official rendezvous point. "Get on; this is the best bike I've ever taken." Back at the 'clubhouse', Shadow made Birdman teach her how to 'jack' a bike helmet.
Every motorcycle was sold with a helmet that served as the key. The helmet had sensors inside the padding to read the brain waves of the bike's owner, programmed at the dealership to respond only to the buyer's specific kinesis. A bike helmet was also vital to the riding of the bike, since, unless they were antiques, all motorcycles were controlled entirely by the thoughts and intentions of the rider.
From its introduction to the general public, this motorcycle helmet had been billed as the most advanced, theft proof design of the millennium since the helmet was specific to the owner and the bike could not be controlled without its own helmet. Somehow, Lt. Avery had figured out how to steal the theft-proof motorcycles.
It turned out that not everyone had passed their initial assignments. Shadow found out later that one was killed and four missed their deadlines. Colonel Johnson ordered the four back into training. Shadow and Birdman were sent to Europe. No mention was made of Shadow's missed deadline by the brass.
~~~
"Roger that, Control; on our way to the feast."
Declan 'Phoenix' Miller piloted his aircraft over the English Channel toward where alien vessels were reported to be. After a moment, the circular slabs he was hunting came into view, the French landscape mere shadow under his plane. Before him, three enemy fighter-craft lit up from underneath, illuminating the ground below in glaring detail despite the post-sunset gloom.
"Control, this is Phoenix. I've a visual on our pasta plates." He reached out to arm his missiles, eyes on his target.
Phoenix' wing-man, Saucy piped up, her grin clearly audible. "Let's dig in then; arming forks now."
"You know the rules, Saucy," reprimanded Control in an amused voice. "No more jokes; over."
"Roger that, Control" Saucy retorted. "I promise to take only serious bites of the Pasta Plates; over." Phoenix had to chuckle over that one but wisely, didn't key his mic first.
"Then . . . Bon appetite; over." Control's dig was the last since the pasta plates' lights had gained in intensity as soon as the British Bulldogs engaged them.
A static stream of interference chattered over the radios. "It's getting hot down here, Eagle 5 . . . Hurry up with that package; over."
Phoenix pitied that panicky Yankee as several American jets joined the fray. "Welcome to the feast, Screaming Eagles," he keyed over his helmet's mike. "Dig in any time."
More static; "Ignore the flames, just keep that target lit! . . . Eagle 5, this is Shadow. Target painted. You boys better fire that missile before my flashlight melts and you lose targeting . . . Keep that head covered, Sandman . . . Oh God! There goes the light. Rags, roll! Your lid's on fire!" Screams sounded in the static.
"Hold on, Shadow." One of the yanks encouraged whoever was on the ground. "Almost there."
But he wasn't. Phoenix could see that the yanks were facing the wrong way. A barn some distance away blew up. The yanks turned their attention to the wrong pasta plate.
"We're under the light. Help us, Eagles!" begged the staticky voice of Shadow from the ground. "Can't . . . last much longer."
Phoenix made a decision. "We have to save them, Saucy. Make for that lowest plate."
Another pilot in the squadron spoke up. "The yanks abandoned their own team and it takes all four forks to stab a meatball, Phoenix. Don't get greedy. Besides, the Yanks haven't exactly been much help until now."
"Until now, Hungry Man," echoed Phoenix over the static interference and worrying over the suffering Yankee below. "We can't just leave them to fry. Yanks or not, those are people down there! I cannot do nothing."
"Hungry Man in position." His attention diverted to the task at hand, Phoenix swung his aircraft into position by the largest of the pasta plates as the pilots replied one by one.
"Carving Knife, in position."
"Saucy, in position."
"Phoenix, in position."
"Fire." At Hungry Man's order, Phoenix mentally released both of his missiles at the same time as the others. Under a barrage of eight missiles, the pasta plate exploded, raining debris onto the earth below. Phoenix swung his craft out of formation and headed toward the second of the enemy crafts.
"Load's away, Chaps. Let's retire." Phoenix' helmet made Hungry Man's voice sound tinny in the earpiece. "The Yanks'll kill one and we'll let the others have the third." By that, Phoenix knew that a second squadron was en-route to take out the smallest of the three alien ships.
"They'll never make it in time, Hungry Man," warned Phoenix urgently as the light under the remaining pasta plate gained in intensity. "And those stupid Yanks . . ."
"Oh, don't be an idjit, Phoenix! We're short of fuel as it is and we've expended all our heavies. What do you plan to do, bore the pasta to death?" Carving Knife, a mom of few words, spoke up in irritation.
"Go on if you like," retorted Phoenix, "I'll not leave them. Perhaps if I go up inside and shoot at the lamp, the penny farthings'll buy time until the other lads arrive."
"I'll not die needlessly. Sorry Phoenix, you're on your own then; Carving Knife out."
"Hungry Man out."
A pause then, "Saucy's out."
Phoenix ignored the retreat of his fellow squadron members as he pointed the nose of his bird toward the last remaining alien craft. The terrified voice of whoever 'Shadow' might be rang in the pilot's ears. He only hoped that his 50mm guns would do enough damage to stop the heat lamps, or in failing, that 'Phoenix' truly would rise from the ashes.
~~~
On the ground, Shadow huddled under her ghillie suit despite the heat, working to quell her terror, to remain under the heat-resistant, protective camouflage veil, lest she too, burst into flames. Despite her urging, two of her team mates had succumbed to the impulse and cast off their heavy shrouds in a vain attempt to flee the suffocating heat. Shadow could see the charred remains of one from her vantage point.
In front of her eyes, the edges of the ghillie-strips curled, melting under the white-hot intensity of light. Her radio crackled; its plastic shiny from heat.
". . . Stupid yank pilots . . ." this voice distinctly British, "hit the wrong ship."
Shadow cried out when the structure she'd been targeting for the Eagles blew, knowing she'd been sacrificed by her country.
The Brit's voice came through the static of her tortured radio again. ". . . I won't leave them . . ." Two agonizing breaths later, the searing light vanished, taking the heat with it.
Shadow keyed her radio, leaving her thumb print in the half-melted plastic. "Thank you, Phoenix." The dark shadows of the night hid her. Cool air swirled over the charred ground.
"God help me, they've taken hold of my plane!" Phoenix screamed.
Shadow jumped out to look and saw round running lights retreating as the third pasta plate fled. Moments after, jets screamed overhead. For long moments, Shadow stood where she was, trying to make sense of what had happened.
The radio crackled to life again, sounding clear in the absence of the heat. "Phoenix, this is Bigmouth, do you copy? Over." When there was no answer, the pilot repeated his query, sounding slightly panicked.
Shadow keyed the mike on her radio, leaving her thumb-print more clearly in the heat-softened plastic and burning her thumb in the process. "Bigmouth, this is Shadow from the ground. You're a bit late for the ball, Mate. I think the Spaghetti men took your date; over." Her voice was shaky, as shaky as her knees and hands.
"Where are you, Shadow? Over."
"Standing in the middle of a big, black circle, I imagine," responded Shadow. Her knees were really shaky and debris was starting to fall around her. "But I think I'll lay down now; over."
When Shadow awoke, she was in a hospital; British military, by the rank insignia on the nurse's uniform. Her lungs hurt with every breath the little tube that ran under her nose provided. The nurse glanced over at her and smiled.
"Hullo, Lass," he said as he ambled over. "You're a bit of a sleeping beauty, you are." He helped her with a drink, checked her vital signs, checked the bag attached to the IV pole and peered into her eyes. "How're you feeling then?"
"I don't rightly know," Shadow replied slowly, gauging herself. "A bit like your chestnuts on boxing day?"
He chuckled. "Right then, I get it; toasted and cold." The elderly man left and returned moments later with a warmed blanket. He tucked it around her and gave her hand a squeeze. "This should help a bit. Are you the shadow?"
Shadow liked him. His voice was warm and friendly. Dark eyes behind thick glasses seemed to sparkle with wit and wisdom. "Are you someone's granddad?" she asked without knowing why.
"Took my wee grandson fishing last weekend, I did." he answered tolerantly.
The warmed blanket made her feel sleepy, so she closed her eyes. "I never had a granddad." After a moment, the warmth spreading up her arm announced the arrival of pain meds. Shadow smiled her thanks and drifted off to sleep.
The duty nurse when Shadow woke up wasn't the same grandpa. Instead, an imperious, uniformed officer sat beside the cot, flanked by a no-nonsense woman in scrubs. "On a pain scale of one to ten, how do you feel?" demanded Ms. Scrubs.
Shadow quickly took stock. "Six," she answered after a slight pause. It was closer to an eight, but Shadow needed a clear head to deal with Officer Odious.
When the rigmarole of her vital signs had been assessed, Shadow turned to the officer. "What can I do for you, Major?" she asked before he could speak. She was hoping to throw him off balance, but judging by his expression, she'd had limited success.
"Sergeant Wentworth," he began, throwing Sarah off balance. "Allow me to begin by expressing my condolences on the loss of your team. The Royal Armed Forces regrets that our joint exercises ended this way."
Shadow thought furiously. "The others, the British team, are they . . ." Complete fiction of course, since there was no British team, no joint exercise in France.
"Gone," mourned the major, truly believing the cover story.
"I'm so sorry," murmured Shadow, feeling remorse for his needless sorrow. "You Brits practically invented sniping. It doesn't seem fair." Suddenly, the officer didn't seem so odious or officious.
"Thank you," he replied to both the condolences and the compliment. "I'm sorry, Sergeant, but I'm to debrief you- for the record, of course."
Shadow was immediately alert. "Sorry Major, no can do. You'll need to wait for my superiors for that." Okay, he was odious. Shadow might not be an 'army regular', but she did know that much about international maneuvers. Debriefing was always attended by parties from both nations.
The major dug into his pocket and produced a pilot's insignia. He held it up to a blank spot on his chest then stuck it back in his pocket. "Phoenix, this is Bigmouth. Do you copy, over?"
The major's look turned pleading. I should have been there, Shadow. I wasn't where I was supposed to be when the call came. Held up the entire squadron, I did, and we missed the ball. Please, Phoenix was my best mate."
The eight was really a nine and the major was really in trouble. Shadow wanted to help him but couldn't summon the energy. "So sorry, Bigmouth," she murmured as the pain crept up, engulfing her every sense. Red turned black as Shadow lost control.
When she woke up again, Shadow's thought processes were hazy, announcing the presence of medication in her system. This time though, Major Avery sat beside a British regular.
"For the record," he began, looking terribly uncomfortable in a uniform, "we need to know what happened, Sergeant." Sarah related everything she could remember, adding in a few fictitious tidbits about the non-existent British sniper team for the sake of Avery's escort.
When both men were done, Mrs. Scrubs brought a wheelchair and Sarah was ordered into it. She was being transferred 'over to the Americans,' Avery explained.
"I'm not leaving unless I'm wearing a proper uniform," Sarah informed her handler. "I refuse to leave this room wearing this!" She picked at the flimsy hospital gown for emphasis. "No way!"
Avery grinned. "There's not much left of it, Sergeant, but I brought you some street clothes." His grin faded when Mrs. Scrubs harrumphed.
"And how will you propose getting them on over her I. V. then?" pointed out the disapproving nurse with a sniff of disdain. She caught Sarah reaching for the port, where the tubing disappeared under the skin of her forearm. "Don't even think about it, Sergeant," warned Mrs. Scrubs. "You have one nasty fungus infection from the falling debris." She looked at the major. "It's all in her discharge report, Sir. Sergeant Wentworth is to have certain meds via IV every four hours. You can apply to the pharmacy desk if you've need of them."
"Yes, I see. Thank you, Corporal." Major Avery dismissed the woman. As soon as that medical force of nature had retreated, Avery turned to his operative. "I really do have clothes for you, Shadow, but the battle axe is right. You'd better not . . . Hey, what do you think you're doing?" Swiftly, he snatched Sarah's left hand safely away from her right, saving the IV port from certain disaster.
Sarah tried to reclaim her hand but Avery held it fast. "I'm getting dressed, Birdman. You can drop me at Penn Station."
"Absolutely not, Sergeant; we will proceed directly to Heathrow where a plane is waiting for us." He eyed her defeated slump. "Colonel's orders; you are ordered to take two months' vacation and then undergo a complete physical and psych evaluation, since you chose to miss the last two. If you pass them, then the colonel has more training in the works for you."
Reassured that she wasn't 'being retired', Sarah nodded. "Yes Sir." She went to sit up and discovered that the hazy feeling hadn't fully disappeared. Avery helped her to the chair. "No more pain stuff," she whispered. "I'm not hurt that bad."
"Actually, you are." Sarah opened her eyes and found Bigmouth standing in the doorway. "You do know about the stuff that fell on you after we lost radio contact? From what I hear, your skull isn't nearly as hard as you seem to think." He handed her a bouquet of flowers. "These are to say 'thanks and recover well;' my wife's idea."
The pilot looked so embarrassed that Sarah couldn't help but tease him. "You're sure these things aren't from the funeral, Major? You know, the one for your career?"
"No, they are not," he returned with a grin, "thanks to you telling my superior that Phoenix went up into that Spaghetti bowl on his own, and against orders at that." He glanced at his watch. "Good luck to you then. I must report on time or it'll be me in that cot next. Farewell Sergeant. Major?" Bigmouth doffed his cap to Sarah, nodded at Avery and left.
"Let's go. We have a plane to catch." Avery sounded subdued as he started to wheel the chair into the corridor.
Sarah eyed the flowers with distaste. To Bigmouth, Phoenix had gone from 'best mate' to a nuisance; defiant of orders and causing trouble. But Sarah owed Phoenix her life and Bigmouth's attitude rankled.
The chair cruised past a door. "Birdman, take me in there, will you?" she asked. When he'd complied, Sarah gave her flowers to a suffering soldier far more wounded than she. To her delight, Grandpa Nurse was tending the wounded man.
"Are you leaving us then, Sleeping Beauty?" the old man teased fondly. "Better luck to you in the future." He winked.
Sarah grinned back and thanked him, but her eyes fell on the man in the bed, on the uneven rumple of his sheet where one leg was missing. He held the flowers, looking confused. Sarah squeezed his hand once. "Thank you," she said just before Avery wheeled her away.
"What was that about?" asked Avery once they were in the hallway.
Shadow shrugged. "I didn't want them but it seemed a shame to just throw them away. Why shouldn't someone else enjoy them?" Her tone was faintly belligerent, warning him to change the subject.
On the plane, Sarah read her medical report. No wonder she was in such pain. The report listed her as being in stable condition with a heavy concussion, several broken ribs, bruised kidneys and broken pelvic bone. What in the dark skies had fallen on her? When she voiced her thoughts, Birdman grinned.
"Heavy Spaghetti." They laughed and Shadow groaned, clutching at her ribs. "You want something for that?" Birdman asked in concern. He was holding up the little pouch of meds to her IV just then, so eyed her expectantly. Shadow shook her head slightly. "Not even to take the edge off?" he pressed.
It was tempting, but Shadow stubbornly resisted. She'd been raised in D.C., had made her living off of the streets where junkies staggered with zombie-like expressions, doing anything, anything in pursuit of their next 'high'. Belle had been hurt by them on more than one occasion, enough to know that she didn't want to be one.
"Nothing ever comes easy," she whispered, quoting one of Slippery Sam's favorite maxims. "Thanks Birdman, but that would be too easy -and too easy to get used to."
He shrugged. "It's up to you." Birdman's voice sounded dubious, but he snapped the case shut, narcotics still safely inside.
He'd made his opinion clear but Shadow didn't care. She closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep. That the higher-ups had sent their own plane to fetch her should have told Shadow something but she was too uncomfortable to think on it.
Her head throbbed and the plane was stuffy, too warm and dry even for a private jet. Every breath Shadow took sent a tingle of discomfort through her chest that added to the burn of her bruised kidneys and the pain of her broken pelvic bone. Sleep was sporadic.
In D.C., Sarah was taken to the medical center for the 187th and examined thoroughly. London's assessment had been accurate, they decided, including the fungus in her lungs and broken pelvic bone. She was promptly admitted to the infirmary, where no one asked her if she wanted any pain meds or not. At first Sarah protested having them, but the scrubs ignored her so Sarah slept most of the time, content to float in her pain-free daze.
". . . In a wheelchair, of all things!" The outraged voice of one of the scrubs caught Sarah's meager attention and held it.
"We have to keep her sedated, Colonel. If she moves just the wrong way, it will move her pelvis out of alignment and we'd have to set it again. In another two weeks, she should be healed up enough to move some."
The alarm went off on Sarah's IV push; the motor that forced the fluids into Sarah's broken body. "Excuse me, Sir. I have to go." Sarah watched the colonel trail along into her room.
"Hiya' Kiddo," the grinning man greeted his daughter. "Glad to see you made it back."
"Hi Dad." Sarah bit her lip. "Sir."
He shook his head. "I missed you, Honey. You just rest and we'll talk later, okay?" He pulled a chair up to where he could hold her hand. "I'll be right here when you wake up."
Sarah took comfort from the feel of her hand in his. "I don't want to sleep for another two weeks, Dad. I don't even know what day it is or how long I've been here." The medicine took over and Sarah fell asleep.
True to his word, the colonel was still there when his daughter woke up. "Hey Baby-cakes," he said gently before she could talk. "You hungry?"
Sarah shook her head, but he held up a cup and put the straw by her lips. The water tasted wonderful. "Pop has too much sugar," she said, as he had when she'd been a little girl begging for a soda.
He grinned at her. "You bet it does. That stuff'll rot your teeth. Have more water, Baby-cakes." She did.
"How come I'm not sleepy?" Sarah asked when she'd drained the cup. "It hasn't been two weeks, I guarantee it."
Colonel Johnston grinned. "No, it hasn't. Move a finger." Sarah obeyed. Nothing happened. "I convinced the doctor to let you detox now, while you're immobilized."
"That your idea too?" Sarah didn't like being paralyzed, but she decided that it beat being a zombie.
Her dad nodded. "In the next two weeks, you're going to be begging for those meds though. I think they had you pretty full of them."
"I know I will. Thanks, Dad."
"You're welcome, Baby."
"Dad, aren't you worried about . . . You know, someone finding out?"
"What, that you're my daughter? Yesterday I had you listed as my next-of-kin. You are my daughter, Sarah, and I don't care who knows it. You are also one of the top ten agents in the 187th, and you did that on your own. I'm proud of you."
His words sent a surge of pride through Sarah's heart, of love for the man beside her. "Really?"
He grinned. "Really; I almost lost you, Baby-cakes. It sets a man to thinking. And you're more important to me than the opinions of men with more ribbons on their uniforms than sense in their heads."
Sarah had to laugh. "You're starting to sound like Mo'," she accused jovially.
"And Mo' should talk," retorted the colonel easily. "She's starting to collect some of those ribbons herself. At her age, that's pretty impressive."
"Well, it's not like she can retire," pointed out Sarah knowingly. "I think she said she'd be something like 92 before she'd be allowed."
"So I hear, and speaking of Mo', there's a few changes you should know about." The colonel waited to see if she were listening. "Mo' doesn't cook much anymore. She's an instructor now in the computer lab."
"Computers? Since when?"
"Since Mo' demonstrated the value of such a skill. It seems she earned her trip to Atlanta's best for hacking and she sure caused a stir when everyone above the rank of Colonel volunteered their wages back to the cause."
Sarah laughed, appreciating the stunt. Mo' must have been truly bored to have managed it. "So, I take it you want me back in school?"
"Not until you're outta' here, Kiddo." The colonel winked at her, reminding Sarah that she would be otherwise occupied for a while.
"I guess it can wait until I can think straight," Sarah acknowledged.